


A Study in Motherfucking Scarlet

by ShinyShimaron



Series: John Motherfucking Watson [1]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle, Sherlock Holmes - fandom
Genre: Crack, Explicit Language, Gen, Humor, Parody
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-18
Updated: 2010-09-18
Packaged: 2017-10-11 23:04:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 15,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/118133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShinyShimaron/pseuds/ShinyShimaron
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Motherfucking Watson tells us the TRUE tale of what happened in "A Study in Scarlet," not that hoity-toity "intelligent, scholarly" junk that got published. Watson is far too cool to suck up to a druggie dumbass like Holmes, right? Damn to the straight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I am John Motherfucking Watson, Bitches!

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally intended as a joke, but has since ballooned into a bit more, so I decided to post it here. It contains a LOT OF SWEARING and adult themes such as drug use, violence, and sex. The opinions of John motherfucking Watson do not necessarily reflect my opinions. I do not own the characters of the Sherlock Holmes novels. The original novel, "A Study in Scarlet," is public domain.

IN THE YEAR 1878 I got my degree of Doctor of Motherfucking Medicine from the University of London, and proceeded to Netley to go through the course prescribed for Motherfucking Army Doctors. After completing my studies there, I was then attached to the Fifth Northumberland Motherfucking Fusiliers as assistant surgeon. The regiment was stationed in India at the time, and before I could join it, the second goddamn Afghan war had broken out, so naturally I had to get in on that shit. On landing at Bombay, I learned that my corps had abandoned the hell out of me, and was already deep in enemy territory. I followed with many other officers who were in the same motherfucking situation, and succeeded in badassly reaching Candahar, where I found my regiment, and started doing my duties as a MFAD.

The campaign brought honours and promotion to many, but for me it sucked total ass. I was removed from my motherfucking brigade and attached to the Berkshires, with whom I served at the motherfucking fatal battle of Maiwand. There I was bending down to tie my shoes when I was struck on the motherfucking shoulder by a Jezail bullet, which shattered the bone and grazed the fucking subclavian artery, went through my arm and hit me in the motherfucking leg. I would have gotten pwned by the murderous Ghazis had it not been for the devotion and courage shown by Murray, my kickass orderly, who threw me across a pack-horse, and succeeded in bringing me safely to the British lines.

It hurt like motherfucking hell, and I didn't want to deal with that shit anymore, so I was removed to the base hospital at Peshawar. Then I was like, what the fuck are you doing? You're John motherfucking Watson, you're badass as hell! So I rallied, and had already improved so far as to be able to defeat the wards in hand to hand combat, and even to bask a little upon the veranda while naked surrounded by naked chicks, when I was struck down by enteric fever, that curse of our Indian possessions (I'm pretty sure one of the Indian chicks gave it to me, too, the bitch). At that point I was like fuck this, war is hell, I'm too good for this shit! I was dispatched, accordingly, in the troopship Orontes, and landed a month later on the motherfucking Portsmouth jetty, slightly less badass than previously, but with permission from a paternal government to spend the next nine months in attempting to get awesome again.

I didn't have no motherfucking friends in England, and was therefore able to do all sorts of badass shit that an income of eleven shillings and sixpence a day would allow me to do (mostly drinking and hiring prostitutes). Under such circumstances I naturally gravitated to London, that great motherfucking cesspool into which all the loungers and idlers of the Empire are irresistibly drained (of their blood. By me.). There I stayed for some time at a private hotel in the Strand, leading a badass motherfucking existence, and spending all my dough like I was Bill Gates or some shit. But then I was all like, WTF, you don't have any money, son, so you better get a job or get out of town. So then I decided to find a cheaper place to live. Like a dumpster.

On the very day that I had moved into said dumpster, I was standing in it facing the wall outside the Criterion Bar, when someone tapped me on the shoulder, and turning round I recognized young Stamford, who had been a motherfucking dresser under me at Bart's. The sight of a friendly face that wasn't trying to shank me or rob me of my pants in the great wilderness of London is a pleasant thing indeed to a lonely hobo. Stamford had never been one of my bitches, but now I hailed him with enthusiasm, and he, in his turn, appeared to be delighted to see me. In the exuberance of my joy, I asked him to lunch with me at the Holborn, and we started off together in a hansom. But it wasn't all gay and crap, don't get any ideas. I like boobs.

"What the hell happened to you, Watson?" he asked in undisguised wonder, as we rattled through the crowded London streets. "You look like crap, man."

I recounted all the crap I just told you, and it took freaking forever and I was like, damn, having friends is tedious.

"Poor devil!" he said, commiseratingly, after he had listened to my misfortunes. "What are you up to now?"

"Looking for lodgings, bitch," I answered. "I don't have no motherfucking money."

"That's hilarious," remarked my companion; "you are the second man today that has told me how goddamn poor he is."

"No shit. Who was the first?" I asked.

"Some punk ass bitch who works at the chemical laboratory. He won't shut up about some awesome house he's found and how no one will live with him because he's fucking annoying as hell."

"Hell to the yes!" I cried; "I'd rather live with some crazy idiot than be a hobo. Besides, I can steal his clothes and crap when he isn't looking."

Young Stamford looked rather strangely at me over his wineglass. "You don't know Sherlock Holmes yet," he said; "you'll probably kill him within a week."

"Why, what the hell is wrong with him?"

"He's always doing some weird-ass science shit. Blowing crap up and poisoning people."

"Goddamnit, I hate science, it's terrible! What is he, some sort of motherfucking medical student? Because I called being this story's doctor, aint no bitch gonna replace me," said I.

"I have no idea what the hell he is, but he aint no medical student. He knows anatomy and shit, and he's a first-class chemist; but, as far as I know, the motherfucker's never even been to grad school."

"Well, what the hell does he do all day then?" I asked.

"Fuck if I know, dude, I was just saying he was looking for a roommate. Why don't you fucking find out for yourself, you lazy ass."

"Fine then, let's do this bitch." So we went to meet him, because having long conversations is for chumps.

He was in some room that was messy as hell. A ton of Bunsen burners and shit were everywhere. There was only one guy in the room. Once my aura of kickassery reached him he looked around and sprang to his feet with a cry of pleasure. "I've found it! I've found it," he shouted, running towards us with a test tube in his hand. "I have found a re-agent which is precipitated by haemoglobin, and by nothing else." Oh God, whatever, dude.

"Dr. John motherfucking Watson, Mr. Sherlock Holmes," said Stamford, introducing us.

"How are you?" he said cordially, giving me the weakest-ass handshake ever in the history of mankind. "You're one of those bitches from Afghanistan, I perceive."

"The fuck? You've been spying on me?" I asked, thinking that I am definitely not a bitch. This man is the bitch. Bitch.

"Nevermind," said he, chuckling to himself. "The question now is about haemoglobin. Don't you see why my discovery is so goddamn awesome?"

"Girl, whatever," I answered, "Who the hell cares about that shit?"

"Are you serious? Everyone should care, you bitch. It lets us test blood stains! Come watch!" He grabbed me and dragged me over to the table at which he had been working. "Let us have some fresh blood," he said, and then he fucking stabbed himself. "Now, I add this small quantity of blood to a litre of water. Now watch what happens when I stick some meth in it!" As he spoke, he threw into the vessel some perfectly good crystal meth, and then added some drops of a motherfucking transparent fluid. In an instant the contents assumed a dull mahogany colour, and a brownish dust was precipitated to the bottom of the glass jar.

"See! How's that bitches!" he cried, clapping his hands.

"Okay, first of all, how is that useful? And second of all, how do you know that this chemical only reacts with blood? Have you tested it with every single thing in the entire goddamn world?" I asked.

"You can catch criminals and shit," Holmes replied. "As for your other question, yes, I have tested it on every motherfucking thing in the world and it only works with blood."

He had a crazy gleam in his eye so I decided not to press him on the issue.

"You are to be congratulated," I said sarcastically.

"I can think of, like, five cases off the top of my head where someone could have been convicted using this shit." Stamford looked as motherfucking bored as I motherfucking felt.

"We came here on business," said Stamford, sitting down on a high three-legged stool, and pushing another one in my direction with his foot. "My friend here needs a motherfucking place to live, and as you were whining that you could get no one to go room with you, I thought that I had better bring you together."

Sherlock Holmes seemed delighted at the idea of someone actually wanting to be within 20 feet of him. "I have my eye on a motherfucking house in Baker Street," he said, "Say, you don't mind the smell of strong tobacco, I hope?"

"Bitch I smoke like 20 packs a day don't even get me started girl," I answered.

"And would it piss you off if I was constantly experimenting and shit?"

"Hell no."

"Let me see– what else could piss you off? I'm a drug addict, I sit at home doing crack all the time, and I treat everyone like shit. Ok, your turn."

"I have a motherfucking bulldog," I said, "he's badass as hell so don't even piss him off. And I stay up all night being awesome and shit, because I'm John motherfucking Watson. There's nothing more to say, bitch."

"Sounds good, John motherfucking Watson," he cried, with a merry laugh. "Let's be roommates! But not the gay kind, I heard you like boobies."

"Damn straight I do."

We left him working among his chemicals and shit so I could head home.

"Hey," I said suddenly, stopping and turning upon Stamford, "how the crap did he know that I had come from motherfucking Afghanistan?"

My companion shrugged. "That bitch is your problem now," he said. "I don't want crap to do with that motherfucker."

"Great," I said. "Thanks for bringing us together, you stupid bastard."

"Whatever, war is hell, but London is heller," Stamford said, as he bade me good-bye.

"Fuck you too," I answered, and strolled on to my hotel, plotting how I would get my sweet revenge.


	2. The Science of Staring at Things

WE MET next day so we could inspect the motherfucking rooms at No. 221B, Baker Street. There were some bedrooms and shit and a sitting room. Just one, though, meaning I'd have to spend time with that motherfucker Sherlock Holmes. Despite this, I decided that it was still better than being a hobo, so I was like, give me the house bitch! That very evening I moved my things round from the dumpster in which I had been living, and had one day to flood the house with both hookers and hookahs before Holmes assaulted us with his presence and moved in. So we unpacked and crap.

Holmes was boring as hell. He never talked about anything, nor did he even acknowledge my obvious badassery. While I stayed up all night getting drunk and romancing hot chicks, he just went to bed, the dull bitch. But what creeped me out the most was his obvious enthusiasm for hobos. He would always take long walks to London's famous Hobo District. He'd spend hours there and come back looking all depressed and shit. Then he'd lie down on the couch doing cocaine and meth, I shit you not. WTF?

The following weeks were do damn boring that I had nothing interesting to write in this stupid book, so I will described what he looked like. He looked like a tall, skinny bird. A bird that does crack and is always covered in chemicals and shit. And no he didn't wear no motherfucking deerskin hat don't even go there girlfriend you're WRONG. That shit is hideous.

Now, you may be asking yourself, John motherfucking Watson, why the hell do you care about this asshole so much? Get a life. The truth is, I had no life whatsoever. I literally had nothing to do but spy on this ugly bird-like motherfucker. And so I did. Get over it, bitch. What, I should have fought in the war again? Bitch please. I am John motherfucking Watson, I will do whatever the hell I want, get off my back.

Anyway, back to Asslock Holmes. He wasn't studying medicine, which was good, because I'M this story's motherfucking doctor. Holmes kept observing all kinds of shit that no one else could possibly want to know. Who the hell cares what kind of cigarettes I'm smoking? Clearly, this loser had less of a life than I did.

And while claiming to be so damn smart, this moron knew NOTHING about anything even remotely important. I'm talking about pop culture and shit. Upon hanging up my poster of the busty Christina Hendricks, he asked me who the hell she was and why I was hanging her picture up on my wall. Hello? Did he even see her boobs? Of course, I was most offended when I found incidentally that he was ignorant of the Copernican Theory and of the composition of the Solar System. Who the fuck doesn't know that shit? HELLO, the earth revolves around the sun, motherfuckers. Fucking deal with it!

"Why the hell are you surprised," he asked in response to my exclamation of dismay. "Who the hell cares what the earth revolves around, I'm not gonna remember that complicated shit." And people think this loser is brilliant?

"Why the hell would you do that you stupid bastard!" This bitch is fucking offensive.

"You see," he explained, "I believe that the brain has finite memory space. Sort of like my bong has finite space for weed, or my nose has finite space for the crack I just did. So I just remember the shit I need to remember and forget everything else, like the name of that guy in the poster on your wall."

"It's motherfucking Christina Hendricks you motherfucking ape-man-bastard!" I protested.

"What the deuce is it to me?" he interrupted impatiently: "it's not like it matters in my work."

I was gonna be all, oh yeah? What the hell is your job then, bitch? But I decided that I didn't want to know because he was probably a drug dealer or some sort of psychotic hobo robot or hitman or male prostitute, or on the Geek squad or something, and no way in hell I want to live with any of those crappers. I pondered over our short conversation, however, and eventually decided to figure it out after becoming bored with spending my time having sex with many women. Since Holmes didn't remember anything that wasn't important to his work, all I had to do was find out every single thing he DID remember to figure out his job! It's so easy, I am a motherfucking genius. Here is my motherfucking spreadsheet:

Sherlock Holmes–his limits

1.

Knowledge of Literature.– Jack squat.

2.

" " Philosophy.– Ok neither of us know that shit it's just dumb.

3.

" " Astronomy.– Who doesn't know that the earth revolves around the sun ? Holmes.

4.

" " Politics.– Thinks the prime minister is Tony Slattery.

5.

" " Botany.– Knows everything, as long as it involves drugs or poisoning someone. Maybe he's a ninja.

6.

Knowledge of Geology.–Practical, but limited. After a hobo stole my pants and I chased him down Holmes could tell me exactly which streets I had been running on and what object I had beaten the hobo to death with by the stains on my clothing.

7.

Knowledge of Chemistry.– Great, if you consider mixing amphetamines with every known living substance while claiming it has some sort of use in the criminal world.

8.

" " Anatomy.–Accurate, but I'm pretty sure the dude's never seen a vajayjay.

9.

" " Sensational Literature.– Dude knows like every crime ever, except for his own crimes against motherfucking humanity.

10.

Plays the violin well.

11.

Thought Christina Hendricks was a dude, WHAT THE FUCK.

12.

Has a good practical knowledge of British law.

When I got to the end of my list I realized that he could only be one thing: an escaped mental patient. "If I can only find the nearest mental institution and force them to commit him," I said to myself, "I might have this badass motherfucking house to myself."

Oh well, remember that crap about the violin up there? Let's talk about that shit. He was pretty damn boss at the violin. He even knew some songs, and played "the Thong Song" for me when I asked. When I wasn't making requests, however, he'd just play any old shit that sounded like a cat was fucking a bell or something. Screech, screech, screech, IT DROVE ME FUCKING NUTS OMG. Eventually I got pissed off and he would go back to playing the Thong Song.

For a while nobody came to the house and I was like, damn, I aint got no friends and neither does he. That Stamford bastard never came around either. But soon I learned that I was the only motherfucker without any friends because a bunch of hobos started showing up to socialize with my crack-addicted roommate. This one little fucker named Lestrade kept showing up. Then another time a young girl showed up, and I was like WTF, why is this bitch hanging out with little girls? Gross dude. All these weird-ass folks kept coming, and Holmes would kick me out of my own motherfucking sitting room. Listen, bitch. I am John motherfucking Watson and I will motherfucking leave when I motherfucking want to so you better watch your motherfucking back. But it turns out I hated that damn sitting room because it always smelled like crack so I just sat in my room writing about how pissed I was about it on FML.

One day, I decided to get up before noon and went down to have breakfast. And wouldn't you know it, the motherfucking landlady hadn't even put out the breakfast that I never motherfucking eat. So I was like, "Listen lady, I want my motherfucking breakfast, that's what landladies are for, you're like a maid or some shit." Then I picked up a magazine to pass the time. It was one of those dumb conspiracy-theory type deals. Eew. I noticed one of the articles was marked, so naturally I read it. Duh.

The article was clearly written by a stoner. It claimed that through observing shit you could figure shit out. Now, obviously that's totally obvious, but this article said that you have to observe shit HARDER, and then you can notice MORE shit. The fuck? Who would write an article on that?

"You need to obseeeeerve, man," the article said. "Like, open your eyes to the woooorld. Then you can see all kinds of shit. Like if you see a guy wearing clothes, you just, like, look real hard at the clothes and then you can tell where he's from or something. But you gotta stare totally hard, and it helps if you've done some crack, that totally helps. Now pass on this advice to all your friends, and help them open their eyes to the world. We can all see more stuff if we just like, look harder."

"What ineffable twaddle!" I cried, slapping the magazine down on the table; "I never read such motherfucking rubbish in my life."

"What is it?" asked Sherlock Holmes.

"This article, bitch," I said, pointing at it with my eggspoon (wtf, a spoon for eggs, who the hell knew that shit existed) as I sat down to my breakfast. "Did you read this shit? I mean, it's well written, for a five-year-old hobo on meth. You can't just sit in a goddamn armchair and claim to know all this shit just because you stare really hard. I would bet like twenty bucks he doesn't even have a job"

"You would lose your money," Holmes remarked calmly. "I wrote that article, you fucker."

"Well the article is bad, and you should feel bad."

"Listen, bitch. At least I have a job. I stare really hard and things and get motherfucking paid for it. What do you do? Have sex with beautiful women? Who the hell wants that I just want to stare at shit while high and get paid for it."

"Ok, how do you even do that?" I asked involuntarily.

"I'm a motherfucking detective, bitch. People who try to solve things suck at it and come to me. I stare at stuff real hard and put them on the right scent to solving mysteries. They just give me the evidence, and I get high and look at it really motherfucking hard, and then I know the answers to everything. Like that bitch Lestrade, can't solve his way out of a paper bag. Girl I invented paper bags so I can totally find my way out of one if I stare at it hard enough."

"So you're not a pedophile then? Because I totally reported you to the police."

"Dude no those are my clients I solve their shit for them for money."

"But do you mean to say," I said, "that you can just sit there and solve every mystery without doing any work whatsoever?"

"Well yeah, duh. Although sometimes I actually have to leave the house. But even then I usually just pay some hobos to do the work for me. Especially hobo children, the little bastards. Anyway, I'm like totes good at observation. For instance, you were surprised that I knew you were one of them bitches from Afghanistan."

"Bitch I know you were spying on me it's totally obvious and I'm sure a million people told you 'cause I'm John motherfucking Watson."

"Nah, I just stared at you and figured it out. This was my line of reasoning: 'He is all medically, like a doctor or something, but he also has some militariness and shit, so maybe he's in the military too. Do they have doctors in the military? Yeah I think so. Clearly he's a Motherfucking Army Doctor. He has a tan, and bitch you know you can't get a good tan in London I've tried, so obviously either he is Mexican or he's been to some other place with dark people. He has some injuries and shit, so he must have been injured. Where in the world can a MFAD go, get a tan, and get his ass kicked? Clearly Afghanistan.' So that's how I figured it out."

"Okay, that doesn't make any motherfucking sense," I said. "What are you, some stupid Edgar Allen Poe wannabe?"

Sherlock Holmes rose and lit his pipe. "Shit no don't pull that crap," he said. "I'm like, totally better than that. Hey do you want some pot?"

"No bitch get that shit away from me," I answered. "If it's gonna make me as delusional as you clearly are I don't want part in that drug crap."

Sherlock Holmes sniffed sardonically. "Whatever girl you're just jealous that I get paid to stare at shit."

He was right! That pissed me off because it's complete bullshit. I went to college forever and what do I get? Bullet wounds and shit. Fuck this asshole.

"Just you wait, John motherfucking Watson," he said, querulously. "My staring methods are gonna get me all famous and crap someday. Then I'll be all rich and awesome."

I was still annoyed as hell so I was like, John motherfucking Watson, you better change the subject, son.

"Hey there's some moron outside looking for something" I said, pointing to some guy with an envelope looking at street signs.

"You mean the retired sergeant of Marines," said Sherlock Holmes.

"Bitch please!" thought I to myself. "Now he's just showing off and crap."

As soon as I said that the wandering moron knocked on our door.

"For Mr. Sherlock Holmes," he said, stepping into the room and handing my friend the letter.

So I was like, hey, I'll show this stupid bastard how wrong he is.

"Hey dude," I said, "what do YOU do for a living?"

"I'm a retired sergeant of Marines, bitch! Fuck you!"

He clicked his heels together, raised his hand in salute, and was gone.


	3. The Motherfucking Mystery at some Gardens or some shit

I CONFESS that I was considerably pissed off at my companion's motherfucking observational abilities. And he was being such a massive douche about it. However, in this case I was pretty damn sure that the whole thing was a setup to impress me. I mean, I'm John motherfucking Watson, who wouldn't want me on their side? When I looked up he was staring REALLY fucking hard at the letter, like he was trying to read it, and failing hard.

"So how the hell did you know that?" I asked.

"Know what?" said he, petulantly.

"That he was a retired sergeant of Marines, you ignorant fuck."

"I have no time for your stupid motherfucking question," he answered, brusquely; then with a smile, "Oh, sorry, I forgot that you're an idiot. You really couldn't tell that he was a motherfucking sergeant of Marines?"

"Don't get all condescending and shit, just explain your motherfucking methods, asshole."

"Listen, it's easy as hell. I just stared at him real hard. He had a tattoo on his hand, and that means he is a sailor. He looked all militarily and shit, kinda like you. Who is in the military and sails around and crap? The marines. Also the navy but fuck that he's totally in the marines. Also he looked real motherfucking important so I figured he was a sergeant. Duh it's like so motherfucking obvious."

"Your observations don't make any motherfucking sense," I said, "Seriously, that's not even a motherfucking rational line of thought."

"You're just a jealous motherfucker," said Holmes, pleased that he had once again pissed me off with his assholery. "Anyway, it looks like I have a case and shit. Time to get my stare on!" he showed me the note that bastard from the marines had brought.

"Sweet Jesus!" I cried, as I cast my eye over it, "Who the hell taught this fuckwad to write?"

"Whatever, bitch," he replied, calmly. "It turns out I can't read worth shit, can you read the letter to me?"

This is the letter which I read to him,–

"MY DEAR MR. SHERLOCK HOLMES:

"HOOOOLY SHIT MAN. HOLY SHIT THERE'S BEEN A MURDER BITCH. WE SAW A MOTHERFUCKING LIGHT AT THIS HOUSE AND WENT TO CHECK ON IT AND OMG OMFG OMFFFFGGGGGGGGGGGG. A BODY DUDE A BODY GROSSSSSSSS. SOME AMERICAN MOTHERFUCKER TOO THAT'S JUST GREAT STUPID AMERICANS SOILING OUR SOIL WITH THEIR BLOOD AND SHIT BUT OMG HOW THE FUCK AM I SUPPOSED TO SLEEP AT NIGHT GIRL THAT'S JUST NASTY I HATE BODIES. I MEAN THE MURDERER DIDN'T EVEN STEAL SHIT JUST KILLED THE GUY WTF MAN WTF. SO GODDAMN GET YOUR STONER ASS DOWN HERE AND STARE AT OUR SHIT FOR US I'M GONNA BE SICK YOU LAZY BASTARD.

"Yours faithfully,

"TOBIAS GREGSON."

"Gregson is the smartest of the Scotland Yarders," my friend remarked; "of course that's not saying a whole motherfucking lot, he's almost as dumb as you. I can't wait to spend all day with him and that fucker Lestrade."

Jesus, did this bastard ever shut the fuck up? "Listen, bitch, there's no time to lose, you gotta solve the motherfucking mystery," I said, pretending to give a shit; "Here I will order you a motherfucking cab."

"Meh. It's just a stupid dead body I'm too lazy for that crap, they should just bring it here so I can stare at it and shit."

"Bitch you aint bringing that shit down here I will fuck you up if you get dead man-goo all over my stuff I'm not gonna lie."

"Ok fine you pussy. But you're coming too you're gonna see how I handle this shit." You have GOT TO BE MOTHERFUCKING KIDDING ME.

"What, you have something better to do?" Holmes asked, sensing my 'tude.

…A minute later we were both in a hansom, driving furiously for the Brixton Road. But not a gay hansom you stupid pervert I'm a boob kinda man.

So we set off to the scene of the crime. It was clear that Holmes was high as a kite, kept talking about burritos and shit.

"Dude how can you even talk about that crap when we're gonna see a dead body gross dude," I said at last, interrupting Holmes's inebriated ramblings.

"I don't got no data bitch," he answered. "I can't do no detective work if I can't stare at shit so I might as well talk about motherfucking burritos."

"Well there's the motherfucking house so shut the fuck up you bitch!" Sure enough, we had arrived. Holmes stepped unsteadily out of the cab, whistling the Thong Song, which I had gotten quite sick of by that point. This asshole really knew how to piss a bro off.

The motherfucking house was swarmed by creepy hobos. It was all dark and spooky as shit. There were like motherfucking trees and crap and the garden sucked ass.

I had assumed that Morlock Holmes would walk into the house and stare at the motherfucking dead body, but he just stood outside looking at the ground.

"Girl the dead body isn't here you idiot it's in the house."

Holmes looked up, "Haha, so it is, glad I brought you!" And wobbled to the door.

At the door of the house there was a tall skinny white boy who waved us over. "HOLMES YOU LAZY BITCH IT TOOK YOU FOREVER," he said, "OMG MAN SOME THIS GODDAMN MYSTERY I'M NOT TOUCHING THAT MOTHERFUCKING BODY."

"Bitch you left footprints dickweed!" my friend answered, pointing at the pathway. "You're ruining my chi, fuck. I can't have no motherfucking footprints. God I could go for some buffalo wings. Watson?"

"Hell no, fuck you."

"NO TIME FOR THAT SHIT I DIDN'T LEAVE NO FOOTPRINTS THAT'S LESTRADE'S FAULT THE DIRTY ASSHOLE," the detective said calmly.

Holmes glanced at me and raised his eyebrows sardonically. "With these two bitches screwing up the crime scene I'm not going to find any shit out," he said.

Gregson rubbed his hands in a self-satisfied way. "WHATEVER THIS CASE IS YOUR PROBLEM NOW I DON'T GIVE A CRAP."

"Then let us go and look at the room." Holmes entered the house, and I followed.

Now, the entire house smelled like motherfucking death. And I know what death smells like bitches I kill people all the time I am John motherfucking Watson and nobody fucks with me without getting a badass sword-cane in the eye. So anyway the house definitely smelled like dead crap. No dead feces but like a dead body you know what I mean don't play dumb, you asshole.

The first thing I noticed about the room was the fucking hideous wallpaper. Dude. BROWN AND GOLD FLORAL MAKES TERRIBLE WALLPAPER DON'T DO IT SERIOUSLY. Also there was ash all over the walls and it was dirty as hell. Where the fuck is a landlady maid-thing when you need one?

The second thing I noticed was the rotting corpse. It was some dude with black hair and crap. The bitch wasn't even wearing his top had it was totally undignified I'd never be caught dead looking like that but apparently he was. His limbs were all interlocked like he had been poisoned or something sinister like that. On his rigid face there stood an expression of motherfucking horror and hatred, like the look I give those people in the drive-thrus who guess what my order is before I tell them. Listen, you bitch. I don't care how many times I go to McDonalds don't tell me what I want to order I'll tell you what I want to order you fucker! Also the guy looked like a monkey. I have seen so much death, mostly caused by my own badass self, but I've never seen a dead guy as ugly as this dead guy. Hell I aint ever seen no monkey as ugly as this dead guy and dead monkeys are gross dude.

Lestrade, who looked not like a monkey but more like a motherfucking ferret, scrambled over to us.

"This is like the biggest case ever!" he said. "By the way, I am not a chicken."

"Yes we know you're not a chicken did you find any clues ferret-man?" said Gregson.

"Haha no," chimed in Lestrade.

Sherlock Holmes leaned down and stared hard at the body as per usual. "Are you sure there was no motherfucking wound cause there's a lot of motherfucking blood and blood comes from wounds like from the human body." he asked, pointing to the blood that had gotten everywhere.

"Listen bitch don't question us there's no wound we looked, even at the naughty-bits!" cried both detectives.

"Well then the blood probably belongs to another person. Watson is a doctor, he'll tell you."

"Yes, Holmes, blood comes from people," said I, glad to lend my motherfucking expertise to the situation, "Unless it comes from something else that bleeds, like an animal. Possibly a dog or-

"No shut the fuck up this is people blood I can tell." I was so over this motherfucker I swear.

So then he started groping the body, I kid you not. This bitch groped EVERYWHERE. And I mean everywhere it was nasty I thought he would just stare but no he had to get all touchy oh my god I don't want to live with this guy anymore. "He has not been moved at all?" he asked.

"Well… no, not until you started groping him like a pervert."

"You can take him to the mortuary now," Holmes said. "There is nothing more to be touched."

So then a bunch of dudes came in with a stretcher, and as they lifted the now-violated body up something shiny fell out!

"There's been a woman here," he cried. "It's a woman's wedding ring."

He held it out and we looked. Yep, that's a motherfucking wedding ring all right.

"HAHA HOW WOULD YOU KNOW LESTRADE," said Gregson. "YOU AINT NEVER SEEN NO WEDDING RING YOU FAILURE."

"Come on it's just a wedding ring no way it can be important," observed Holmes. "Hey did you check his pockets maybe he had some blow."

"WE HAVE IT ALL HERE," said Gregson, pointing to a litter of objects upon one of the bottom steps of the stairs. "HE HAS A WATCH AND SOME LETTERS AND CRAP. ONE WAS ADDRESSED TO SOME DUDE NAMED STRANGERSON."

"Hey that's a creative name, I'm gonna name my dog that!" Holmes immediately exclaimed.

"UM, OK," said Gregson. "ANYWAY, I SENT A TELEGRAM OUT LOOKING FOR INFORMATION ON THIS BITCH-"

"Hey let's do some drugs."

"-WE EVEN DENT A TELEGRAM OUT TO CLEVELAND SINCE APPARENTLY HE'S FROM THERE-"

"Did you ask them for drugs? I'm totes an addict you know."

"LISTEN YOU FUCKER, SHUT THE FUCK UP ABOUT DRUGS. WE'VE PAID YOU TO STARE AT SHIT AND SOLVE THE CRIME YOU'RE PISSING ME OFF NOW SOLVE IT OR YOU'RE MOTHERFUCKING FIRED, ASSHOLE."

Sherlock Holmes look disappointed that he would not be getting high with Gregson at this point, when Lestrade entered the room.

"Mr. Gregson," he said, "I just discovered something totally awesome! Get your gay ass in here," so we entered the room. "Now, stand there!"

He struck a match on his boot and held it up against the wall.

"Look at that!" he said, triumphantly.

I have remarked that the wallpaper was fucking hideous. In this particular corner of the room a large piece had thankfully peeled off, leaving a motherfucking yellow square of coarse plastering. Across this bare space there was scrawled in motherfucking blood-red letters a single word–

RACHE

"See I found a clue I'm totally awesome!" cried the detective, with the air of a showman exhibiting his show. "See even you didn't think to stare over here, but I did. Someone wrote a message in blood! So like they wanted to send a message and shit!"

"GROSS DUDE." Gregson remarked.

"I bet Rachael Ray had something to do with this!

"Ok IF IT WAS RACHAEL RAY IT WOULD SAY 'RACHA' YOU STUPID FUCK!" said Gregson.

"Ok I'm gonna have to stare at this shit some more," Holmes broke in. I was quickly getting motherfucking bored, and wondered if McDonalds had stopped serving breakfast yet.

While I was thinking this Failock Holmes had gotten out a magnifying glass and was walking around the room. He stared at everything! Every piece of furniture, every spot on the floor, everything. Finally he stopped.

"I'm like totally a genius," he remarked with a smile. "Did you see that shit? I stared at it for like 30 minutes that time!"

The rest of us were unimpressed.

"Well then, what the hell did you find out, genius?" asked the police officers.

"I'm not telling you bitches," remarked my friend. "Fuck that solve it yourselves lazy asses." What an asshole. "Listen though if you get any cocaine let me know," he continued, "Got any more shit you want me to stare at for money?"

Lestrade glanced at his notebook. "John Rance," he said. "he's an officer who discovered the body. Go stare at him for a while and really creep him out and shit it'll be hilarious."

Holmes took a note of the address.

"Come along, Doctor," he said: "we'll go stare at this bitch. Oh, and before we go do that shit," he continued, turning to the two detectives. "The bitch who murdered this guy was totally a dude. He had long fingernails and shit and was pretty damn tall I'm thinking haha."

Lestrade and Gregson glanced at each other and sighed.

"If this man was murdered, how was it done?" asked the former.

"He was forced to breakdance and got stuck," said Sherlock Holmes curtly, and strode off. "One other thing, Lestrade," he added, turning round at the door: "'Rache,' is motherfucking German, you moron. It means revenge why the fuck don't you speak German you know they gonna take over this motherfucking place in like 20 years bitch."

Then he walked away, leaving the two rivals open mouthed behind him.


	4. John Rance's Motherfucking Testimony

IT WAS one o'clock when we got the hell out of No. 3, Lauriston Gardens. And I was thinking, where the hell did the phrase "o'clock" come from? Is it Irish? I hate the goddamn Irish because I am a sexy motherfucker from Awesometania and that's the way it is, bitch. While I was pondering these things Sherlock Holmes led me to the nearest telegraph office, whence he took motherfucking forever dispatching a telegram composed completely of 1s and 0s. He then hailed a cab, and ordered the driver to take us to the address given us by Lestrade.

"If we're gonna solve the crime, we need evidence, bitch," he remarked; "that's all they want in the court of law, motherfucking evidence. Girl I already know who did it but you gotta be able to prove it to convince those dumbass juries."

"You amaze me, Holmes," said I, "with your astute knowledge of British law. Why, I never would have known you need evidence to solve a case! How do you figure this shit out?"

"It's no problemo, my queer Watson," he answered. "I knew the bad guy had taken a cab because there were cab wheels in the road."

"How do you know it wasn't just another cab, and the man went on foot?"

"Bitch shut the hell up it was his cab I will cut you."

"Okay, we'll leave that motherfucking alone," said I; "but how did you know how motherfucking tall the man was?"

"Duh, I saw from the footprints that he had, like, huge feet. And you know what they say about dudes with big feet. They have, like, really long bodies. So they're tall and shit."

"Did you figure out his age?" I asked.

"Bitch come on we live in 19th century London everyone has a motherfucking short lifespan of course I knew he was young as hell."

"And you knew he had motherfucking long fingernails because..." I suggested.

"Because murderers are motherfucking nasty and don't have proper hygiene, duh."

I facepalmed. "You have to be motherfucking kidding me," I remarked; "You're making these stupid random guesses and half of them don't make any motherfucking sense. If you're so smart, why did those two sons of bitches hang out in an empty house, if there even were two and not more? Did they use a getaway driver? Was the cabby in on it? How did one motherfucking force the other to breakdance, that's stupid as hell. And if he did breakdance to death, why was there blood, since you clearly don't think it came from a motherfucking dog? And since there was no robbery, why was that bitch murdered? And what the fuck was up with that wedding ring anyway? And what the fuck is up with that RACHE shit? Answer that, Sherlock motherfucking smartass Holmes."

My companion sighed.

"Listen, you little fuck, those questions are bad and you should feel bad," he said. "Who the hell cares about that shit. Listen, I will answer your last question since I can't even motherfucking remember the rest. Clearly RACHE means nothing at all and was put there for no reason. And that's all I'm going to motherfucking tell you because I am awesome and you suck Indian elephant balls."

"Listen, bitch," I answered; "That was one time, and it was on a motherfucking dare, so fuck off."

My companion looked pissed off at my obvious disdain for his drug-induced epiphanies.

"Maybe this'll impress you," he said. "There was, like, a ton of dust in the room and shit. And I looked at the dust and it was, like, everywhere! So clearly they were both breakdancing in the room before the murder." I rolled my eyes.

After what seemed like an eternity we finally arrived at Audley Court. It was, like, the fugliest court EVER. It was all sordid and shit. And there were dirty children everywhere. And clothes hanging up and shit. But mostly dirty children being used as garden gnomes and shit. Put those little fuckers to work IMO bitch I was a soldier by the age of 10 I was so badass.

John Rance appeared presently, looking all pissed off 'cause we'd interrupted his hot sex with his wife, "Listen, man, I already talked to the police, you bloody cockblocks," he said.

Holmes handed him a burrito. "Bitch, we wanna hear the story from your own lips before you go back to your wife's" he said.

"A burrito? Really?," the constable answered, staring at the beany goodness before him.

"Listen just tell us what happened girl."

He sighed and sat down, preparing to tell us his motherfucking story.

"Now this is the story all about how my night got flipped – turned upside down," he said. "Now sit down bitches and listen to me, I'll tell you how I came upon the body for a small fee. In Laurison Gardens, patrollin' around, I was hanging out with Harry Muncher, and all was sound. Chillin' out, relaxin', smokin' a joint, I wasn't expectin' no dead bodies there at that point. Saw a light in this house, thought, "this is no good, that house is supposed to be empty, so check it out you should!" So I went to the window and almost died, 'cause I saw a motherfucking rotting corpse inside! So then I looked round, but didn't see a soul, so I called the 'Yard for backup, and that's the end of my motherfucking story can I go now?"

"Did you enter the goddamn house," asked Surefuck Holmes, "'cause I'm pretty sure you motherfucking did you were walking around and shit cause there were like dust footprints everywhere, biatch."

"Bitch you spying on me?" asked Rance.

I stepped in, "This fucker spies on everyone you get used to it you have like no privacy in this city I swear to motherfucking God."

Holmes laughed and snorted a line of coke. "Listen, bitch, it's not like I'm the murderer," he said. "Just ask Gregson or Lestrade, they know I'm too lazy to do shit like that."

"Anyway, yeah girl, I entered the house and checked the body, obviously, then I went outside to chill with the hobo.

"What hobo?"

The constable grinned. "There was this guy who was like, totally wasted outside. He kept rambling on about stupid crap. Bitch couldn't even stand up."

"Meh," said Holmes.

"What do you mean 'meh'," I asked, "Don't you think he could have had something to do with the murder? Duh."

John Rance looked pissed. "Hell to the no drunk people don't murder folks."

"Do you have any more coke?" asked Holmes.

"Did you catch his face? See where he went? Hello, what kind of policeman are you?"

"Listen girl I'm not gonna waste my time on drunk people," the policeman said, "he probably went home or some shit."

"What was he wearing?" These seemed like pretty motherfucking obvious questions.

"Probably like a coat or something."

"Haha, did he have a whip? Whips are awesome," Holmes gurgled.

"A whip–no."

"Damn, I'm gonna buy me a whip, seriously," muttered my companion. "Hey do you have any more co-"

"No!"

"Well then I'm outta here," my companion said, standing up and taking his hat. "Dumbass policemen aint never gonna rise in the force if they don't keep a good supply of drugs. Come along, Doctor, we'll get our own motherfucking coke."

We started off for the cab together, leaving our informant incredulous, but obviously uncomfortable.

"What a dumbass," I said, as we drove back to our lodgings. "Not that you were much of a help, asking for drugs when that guy was clearly describing the murderer-"

"Fuck that murderer shit I don't need to solve no motherfucking crimes. By the way, stop pretending to be a detective you ass, I'm the detective, you're my bumbling motherfucking ugly sidekick, know your place."

"Oh, right, fuck you. I am John motherfucking Watson I am motherfucking badass I was in the war and beat the crap out of people and am a doctor and you're just some lazy cokehead who stares at shit for money don't even get me started you giant assclown."

"At least I can pawn off this awesome wedding ring for drugs, I'm gonna get so high it's gonna be sweeeeeeeeeeeeet. Tra-la-la-lira-lira-lay."

Leaning back in the cab, this amateur fuckhound carolled away like a loony while I meditated upon the many-sidedness of the human mind. Also I wanted a motherfucking steak, why's it always gotta rain in London I can't use my motherfucking BBQ WTF.


	5. It aint Over Till the Fat Lady Flies

OUR morning's bullshittery had thoroughly pissed me off, so I was like, fuck that shit, I'ma get drunk and look at porn. Awfulock Holmes had gone to a "concert," which likely consisted of drunken hobos singing while he exchanged money for more cocaine. For me, however, it was hard to get wasted because every time I closed my eyes I saw that fugly dead body. That murdered guy was UGLY. Like, uglier than ugliness. Uglier than your FACE. And it was obvious that the murdered guy was a terrible person, evilness from the depths of hell, because nothing good can come from an ugly person, they're all evil bastards. But whatever a horrible person he was, I still wanted to find the murderer and beat the shit out of him, just because it would feel good.

Then I started thinking about Holmes' batshit death-by-breakdancing theory. It is true that the body was contorted like some sort of magic super death dance of expiration, but breakdancing? Really? That shit hasn't even been invented yet. And where did the motherfucking blood come from? Girl if you're gonna bleed while breakdancing you're doing something motherfucking wrong IMO. Anyway, it didn't motherfucking matter what I thought, because Assfuck Holmes didn't seem to give a shit about his own mystery. I decided to take it upon myself to solve it, because I am so freaking bored right now you guys you have like no idea.

So a few motherfucking hours later Holmes returned from the William Percy French concert.

"Dude it was like totally boss," he said, as he collapsed in a chair. "Do you know how many of my motherfucking homies brought dope? We were listening to the music so hard that we, like became the music, man. It's like, you'd think that everyone knew music, from like the beginning, but we're sitting here listening to it, you know?"

"You are a motherfucking moron," I remarked.

"You're just not smart enough to understand, man, music permeates all generations," he answered. "What the hell is wrong with you anyway? Don't tell me you're scared of a motherfucking dead body."

"Listen you bitchface motherfucker that body was nas-tay," I said. "I mean, I've seen so many dead bodies and shit you don't even know. When I was in Maiwand my groupies were getting all hacked up and shit, and I was like, whatever! But girl that body was just damn gross as hell."

"Yeah it really stimulates the imagination, right? Hahaha. Hey read the newspaper to me kthx."

He threw the paper into my face and I looked at the page he had marked. It was the first announcement in the "Found" column. "In Brixton Road, this morning," it ran, "I found a motherfucking gold wedding ring and shit. IT'S ALL PLAIN BUT I'M NOT GONNA DESCRIBE IT YOU MIGHT TRY TO STEAL IT YOU DIRTY BASTAARDS. It was found near where that body was found but haha I'm totes sure it had nothing to do with the body so don't worry this isn't even a setup. Ask for John motherfucking Watson, he's the bitch who stole it."

"Yeah, that's right, I used your name, you pussy," he said. "I'm like so goddamn famous they'd recognize me so I used yours cause you're a nobody."

"Fuck you I am everybody I am John motherfucking Watson you fizzybitchassassmonger," I answered. "Besides, I don't have no motherfucking ring to give them did you even think of that?"

"Oh I totally did, I'm a genius, bitch," said he, handing me one. "All rings look the same so I just jacked this one from some stoned chick at the concert haha."

"And you're thinking the criminal will just show up at our door and ask for it?"

"Oh totally criminals are dumbasses I'm sure he'll do it."

"What if he doesn't give a shit about the ring and doesn't show up?"

"Oh girl he totally gives a shit it's like a ring you know you can wear them and pawn them off for drugs and crap who the hell would just leave it on the ground he's totally gonna show up I bet he's looking everywhere and reading the paper not suspecting a thing cause I'm so goddamned geniused you don't even know and neither does he because I'm awesome and he's just a stupid criminal."

"And what happens when he shows up?" I asked.

"We beat the shit out of him! You got a gun?"

"Bitch don't even ask that of course I have my motherfucking gun and my motherfucking cane with a motherfucking sword in it not to mention my motherfucking fists I will beat the ever-living shit-crap out of this guy."

"Great, this is gonna be so badass!"

So I sat down as Holmes started screeching out a terrible rendition of "The Final Countdown" while I sharpened my cane-sword-thingie on my TEETH with my shirt off like motherfucking Gob Bluth.

"The plot motherfucking thickens," he said, as I came back from taking a crap; "Some jackass answered my telegram woot woot!"

"Okay…" I said.

"MY FIDDLE IS NOT BADASS ENOUGH I NEED SOME MOTHERFUCKING NEW STRINGS THAT ARE BADASSER THAN THIS," he remarked. "Oh get your gun ready girl we're gonna shoot the bitch as soon as he walks through the door lol."

"Whatever, you don't have to tell me to shoot someone I know how to do it," I said, glancing at my watch.

"Hey you wanna check out this new book I got?"

"I thought you couldn't read."

"It's a motherfucking picture book obviously it's got cats doing stupid things like watching you masturbate haha."

Luckily he didn't get to elaborate as at that moment the doorbell rang.

"Does Dr. Watson live here?" asked the motherfucking murderer. I cocked my gun, ready to blow his head off.

"Come in," I cried.

And what do you know it was a motherfucking old lady oh my God. I had my gun pointed at her chest but then I was like, hell no, I aint shootin' no old lady unless she really is a criminal so I pretended like I was just scratching my temple with the barrel of my gun then set it down. Holmes looked so pissed that it was a chick I was laughing dude serves that bastard right IMO.

The old motherfucking lady got out the paper and pointed to Holmes' failure of an advertisement. "See this advertisement it's for a ring," she said, curtseying horribly; "It's a wedding ring. It belongs to my daughter, she's really hot and all, her name is Sally Michelle Anna Berkowitz, and this one time she like totally got married, but her husband is in the motherfucking navy and he like gets drunk all the time and shit, he's an asshole and he gonna beat the crap out of her if she don't have no ring, but of course that bitch lost it when she went to a William Percy French concert last night-"

"Shut the hell up you old bag, is this the ring?" I asked.

"It sure as hell is!" cried the old woman; "I'm so glad she's not going to be the victim of domestic violence, that shit is whack."

"Hey what's your address I want to know where you motherfucking live?" I said.

"It's none of your fucking business you shut the hell up."

"Curses, foiled again," Sherlock Holmes said.

The woman spun around and gave Holmes this look like, the crap?

"You're a mighty high motherfucker aren't you," she said. "I just came for the motherfucking ring so why don't y'all butt out of my business you hear?"

"Just take the goddamn ring," I interrupted, sick of this old bag and her old, smelly ways; "I don't even care if it's yours just get the fuck outta my house, bitch."

She left and Sherlock Holmes left the room, coming back in a motherfucking cravat.. "I'm gonna stalk that old biatch," he said, hurriedly; "she's ugly as hell and therefore must be evil." I looked out the window and there was the old lady walking like old ladies walk, and Holmes walking behind her like a pathetic drug-addict walks. "Either he's some kind of secret genius," I thought to myself, "or else he is the dumbest person on this whole goddamn earth."

I decided to read Holmes' picture book while waiting for him to come back. When he finally did he looked pissed.

"Man I suck giant donkey balls," he cried, dropping into his chair; "Seriously I can't even follow an old lady what the hell."

"Please list your failings to me so I can write them down and gloat over them later." I said.

"I was following that bitch and she got in a cab so I followed her but she jumped the hell out on the way oh my god!"

"What the fuck," I cried, in amazement, "Is that old lady a motherfucking acrobat or something what a freak of nature holy hell on a hamburger!"

"Dude it probably wasn't even an old lady don't you get it!" said Sherlock Holmes, sharply. "It was probably a dude dressed as a chick or something I do that all the time why can't other people god I need a smoke god do we have any more crack please tell me we do."

I just ignored the fucker and went to bed, but I couldn't sleep because he was playing a coke-induced rendition of the Keyboard Cat song on his motherfucking violin.


	6. Tobias Gregson gives us the low-down

THE next day all of the tabloids were all over the "Goddamn Brixton Mystery." They were making all kinds of shit up and gossiping like those bitches knew the real story. But listen, THEY DON'T KNOW THE REAL STORY, BITCH. I do I'm motherfucking TELLING it to you here don't believe any other account cause it's wrong. I am John motherfucking Watson.

Fox News was all like, IT'S NAZIS NAZIS GONNA TAKE OVER THE WORLD. Nazis haven't even been invented yet you douches get a grip. Then they blamed it on the American socialist president Obama. Since the victim was American obviously they were inflicting their horrible socialism on us. The next thing you know England'll have NATIONAL HEALTHCARE and that will suck major ass oh my god.

The Family Life and Justice Organization Tabloid Magazine blamed it on the liberals. Clearly liberals murder people, he claimed, because they are god-hating poopie-faces. The dead guy was some liberal American with some other liberal American friend (probably gay lol) then ONE GOT MURDERED, it is obvious what's going on here. Luckily Lestrade and Gregson are on the case, as they are obviously NOT gay with each other and therefore not dirty liberal douchenozzles.

The Daily Mail blamed women, of course. There was clearly a fight over a woman who used her evil womanly wiles and wishes of equality to convince them to die in a violent breakdancing contest for her love. The paper called for an immediate rounding up of everyone with lady-parts so they could be locked up and the men could live together in peace, TOTALLY NOT GAY THOUGH.

I read these papers to Holmes, who was too stupid to read, at breakfast, but he kept interrupting me with his irritating snorting laugh every five seconds.

"Bitch Gregson and Lestrade are totally gay with each other gay is a funny word," he giggled.

"Please don't get high at the breakfast table."

"Oh, bless you, it doesn't matter in the least where I get high. I get high either way and I will be high hehe did you know I speak French? Omelet du… fromage. Omelet du… fromage."

"Shut up someone is coming you fucking hack," I cried, for at this moment there came the pattering of many steps in the hall and on the stairs, accompanied by audible expressions of disgust upon the part of our landlady, such as, "YOU FUCKING LITTLE CROTCH-DROPPINGS I WILL END YOU," and "I AM SO FUCKING GLAD MY OVARIES SHRIVELED YEARS AGO GODDAMNIT."

"It's the Baker Street division of the detective police force," Holmes giggled, falling over; and as he did there rushed into the room half a dozen of the dirtiest and most ragged street Arabs that I've ever motherfucking seen. And I'm not racist, they were totally Arab. From like Arabia and shit. Little Arabian hobo urchins they were.

"Hello little brown children!" cried Holmes, with a wave of the hand from the floor on which he was laying, covered in coke, and the six dirty little ethnic scoundrels stood in a line like so many disreputable little brown statuettes. "Did you find what I asked for, you little whipper-snappers?"

"Nope," said one of the youths, whose name was Wiggins despite being Arab.

"Whatever look harder you cunt product here's your money." He handed each of them a shilling. "Now, it finds what I want it to find or it gets the hose again!"

They ran away crying.

"Hahah those hobo children are hilarious, they find out so much shit for cheap," Holmes remarked. "I can pay them nothing while their families are starving and they'll spy on people for me and put their lives at risk hahahaha it's so fucking hilarious I am a genius."

"Shouldn't I report this to child services?" I asked.

"LOL that doesn't exist there are no child labor laws you 'tard. Hey look here comes that giant douche Gregson, gonna tell us some shit."

We knew it was Gregson because he was running up the stairs four steps at a time, as loudly as motherfucking possible.

"HOOOOOOOOLMES HOLMES HOLMES HOLMES HOLMES GUESS THE FUCK WHAT GUESS WHAT I'M GONNA TELL YOU HUH GUESS GUESS HOLMES GUESS," he cried, wringing Holmes's unresponsive hand, "THAT'S RIGHT I SOLVED THE MOTHERFUCKING CASE BEFORE YOU DID HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA WHAT NOW BIATCH YOU CAN MOTHERFUCKING SUCK IT."

Holmes looked pissed at this prospect, because he obviously realized that lying on the floor covered in cocaine doesn't solve motherfucking mysteries.

"Whuuuut?" he asked.

"THAT'S RIGHT YOU FUCKER I ARRESTED SOMEONE HE'S THE MURDERER I WIN WOOOOO!"

"Who?"

"ARTHUR CHARPENTIER," cried Gregson, attempting to give me a chest bump and missing, sending himself flying across the breakfast table.

Sherlock Holmes gave a sigh of relief.

"Hah no way a French guy's gonna do it they are pussies," he said. "Hey let's get drunk and you can tell me how you came to this false conclusion."

"DON'T MIND IF I DO," the detective answered, bringing himself to his feet. "GETTING SMASHED IS AWESOME, CAUSE I'M SMART AND IT'S SMART TO GET DRUNK."

"That's what I'm always sayin'," said Holmes, pouring beer and missing the glass, spilling it down his already dirty torso. "Why don't you tell us about this motherfucking arrest you made." He handed the empty beer glass to Gregson.

Gregson drank it anyway, of course, sitting in a chair. Then he poured himself another motherfucking beer, drank from it, but started giggling-near drink and almost choked to death. Then I gave him the motherfucking Heimlich maneuver, 'cause I'm a motherfucking Doctor.

"THANKS LOL," he cried, "SO LESTRADE WENT TO GO FIND STRANGERSON HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA."

He choked on his beer again, so I took it away.

"OK HERE'S THE STORY OMG WAIT WATSON YOU BITCH DON'T TELL ANYONE AND ESPECIALLY DON'T WRITE THIS IN A BOOK OK? THIS IS CONFIDENTIAL POLICE WORK!"

"Got it," said I.

"ANYWAY HE HAD A HAT AND IT HAD AN ADDRESS ON IT LOL."

"Oooooh yeeaaaaah," said Holmes; "I totally checked that."

Gregson looked quite crestfallen.

"WELL I NOTICED IT FIRST YOU FUCKING BASTARD," he said. "DID YOU VISIT THE PLACE BY ANY CHANCE?"

"Haha no I am way too damn lazy for that shit I followed some ol' granny across town instead that's where it's at right there."

"HHHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!" cried Gregson, in a relieved voice; "LISTEN IF YOU SEE AN ADDRESS SOMEWHERE YOU GOTTA VISIT IT I LEARNED THAT IN POLICE SCHOOL."

"When you're brilliant like me, you like, don't need school or something," remarked Holmes, sententiously.

"SO I WENT TO THE HAT MAKER AND WAS LIKE, BITCH, WHO DID YOU SELL THIS HAT TO. AND HE WAS LIKE, THIS DUDE NAME DREBBER AND GAVE ME HIS ADDRESS."

"Damn, why didn't I think of that," murmured Sherlock Holmes.

"SO THEN I WENT TO THE HOUSE LOL," continued the detective. "THERE WAS THIS CHICK THERE AND ANOTHER CHICK AND THEY LOOKED ALL LIKE SCARED AND SHIT SO I WAS LIKE HAY DID YOU MURDER THIS GUY!'

"THEN THEY STARTED CRYING AND I WAS LIKE, YEEEEAH, I CAN COMFORT THESE HOT CHICKS, YOU STILL GOT IT GREGSON YOU HOT CHUNK OF MAN MEAT.

"'HEY LAAAADIES, WHAT TIME DID THIS DREBBER GUY LEAVE THIS MORNING LOL,' I asked.

"'At eight o'clock, bitch,' she said, gulping in her throat to keep down her obvious turned-onness. 'He was catching a motherfucking train.'

"'OH OK.'

"ALSO MY BROTHER MURDERED HIM,' said the daughter.

"'What the fuck!' cried Madame Charpentier, throwing up her hands and sinking back in her chair. 'I swear to God I raised a couple of morons.'

"'OK TELL ME ABOUT THE MURDER THINGIE YOU HOT LADIES.'

"'Ok I will tell you everything but my son is like totally innocent even though he murdered that guy.'

"'YOUR BEST WAY IS TO MAKE A CLEAN BREAST OF THE FACTS,' I answered. 'IF YOUR SON IS INNOCENT, HE MIGHT NOT COME OFF AS MUCH OF A BOOB.'

'Now, sir,' she continued, 'I will tell you everything, as I have absolutely no motive in hiding anything from the police whatsoever,'

"'IT IS YOUR WIDEST VAGINA,' said I, "I MEAN YOUR WISEST COURSE."

"'Much like you, that Drebber asshole kept trying to get it on with my daughter. It creeped me out so my son murdered him.'

"Bitch you always get the easiest interviewees," said Sherlock Holmes, with a yawn. "I'm gonna take a nap while you finish your motherfucking story."

"SO THEN," the detective continued, "I LOOKED AT HER IN THE WAY I KNOW THE LAAADIES LIKE, LIKE I WAS ALL SEXY AND SHIT. AND WAS LIKE MURDER IS BAD, LADY. SO THEN I ARRESTED THE SON AS HE WAS OBVIOUSLY PRETTY SUSPICIOUS HAVING MURDERED THE GUY LOL."

"So, how did he kill that ugly bitch?" I asked.

"HE BEAT THE SHIT OUT OF HIM WITH A CLUB BUT IT WAS MAGICAL SO IT LEFT NO BLOOD AND THEN MAGICALLY SOME BLOOD APPEARED ON THE FLOOR SO HE WROTE IN IT AND THEN CONTORTED THE BODY TO LOOK ALL FUNKY AND THEN LEFT HAHAHAHA."

"Well, that's good enough for me." said Holmes lazily. "Case solved, where's my crack?"

So then we heard a noise and it was Lestrade entering the room. He looked all troubled and shit at the sight of Gregson. "Well," he said at last– "this case sucks giant motherfucking elephant balls."

"LOL NO I ARRESTED SOME GUY IT'S OVER!" cried Gregson, triumphantly. "HEY DID YOU FIND THAT STRANGERSON GUY I BET HE'S GLAD HE DIDN'T GET MURDERED TOO."

"He did get murdered too, you stupid piece of shit," said Lestrade, gravely, "God, you people are so motherfucking fired."

Except for me, I'm just a motherfucking army doctor.


	7. The Plot Embiggens!

THE intelligence with which Lestrade greeted us was so momentous and so unexpected that we were all three fairly dumfounded. I mean, the guy's a dumbass, let's face it. Gregson sprang out of his chair and screamed a very long "WWTTTFFFFFFFF." I glanced at Holmes, who looked pissed.

"Dayum!" he muttered. "The plot embiggens."

"Dude it was already embiggened enough before it got embiggened again," grumbled Lestrade, taking a chair. "This is some crazy shit man."

"ARE YOU SURE HE'S DEAD LIKE CAUSE THAT WOULD SUCK," stammered Gregson.

"Well duh I saw his body dude," said Lestrade. "I was the first one to find it, too, so I get dibs."

"Dibs on what?" I asked.

"You know… dibs."

"Okay, okay, if I'm gonna try to solve this motherfucking mystery I gotta hear about this body shit," said Holmes. "So tell us what happened and I'll stare at you really hard until I find the answer."

"Okie dokie artichokie," Lestrade answered, seating himself. "I was all like, hey, Strangerson probably killed that guy 'cause they knew each other and shit. So I was like, hey, I can like find out where he is and ask him about it! So then I called like every hotel until I found him lol."

"That's so brilliant but how did you call them when a motherfucking telephone hasn't been invented, man?" asked Holmes.

"I walked you fuckwad. Anyway, I found him at this one hotel and asked to see him, and they were like, lol sure! So I got to the door, and what did I see? Blood! It was all creeping out from under the door and shit it was soooo gross. So then I started crying 'cause it was so scary and the hotel manager broke down the door for me he was such a romantic hero. Anyway there was totes a body inside and it was Strangerson! Imagine that lol! He was all stabbed and crap. And guess what was above him on the wall!"

I was about to say, 'The word RACHE, written in letters of blood,' but Holmes interrupted me.

"A BONG!"

We all turned our heads at him and gave him a look, like, seriously? Shut the hell up.

"It was the word RACHE, written in letters of blood," said Lestrade, in an awestruck voice. Of course it motherfucking was duh.

So then I was thinking, this is kinda scary dude! I mean I murder people all the time if they get in my way but I don't write crap in blood on the wall what kind of sick bastard does that not me but he's gotta be some kind of depraved jerk to do shit like that.

"But there was a witness," continued Lestrade. "Some kid saw him climbing up a ladder and was like, why are you doing that, and he was like, I'm the janitor lol, and the kid was like ok."

"So, like, did you find any clues for me to stare at?" Holmes asked.

"Well there were these pill thingies."

Holmes' face immediately lit up at the thought of drugs.

"MOTHERFUCKING SWEET," he cried, exultantly. "Gimme gimme gimme gimme."

"No," said Lestrade.

"Come on, I'm not gonna eat them, it's for the case, they're probably poison or something."

"Ok, ok," said Lestrade, producing a small white box; "They're probably not important though why would pills be used in a murder?"

"Yay gimme gimme," said Holmes. "Hey, John motherfucking Watson," turning to me, "tell me what you know about these pills!"

"They're gray," I remarked.

"EXACTLY," answered Holmes. "Now bring me your dog!"

"Hell no you're not experimenting on my dog you fucker that bitch'll end you." But I eventually agreed to fetch him at the prospect of watching my dog rip Holmes' face off.

So I brought up my dog, Awesomestone, and placed him in front of Holmes. That thing looked PISSED, like, you don't wanna feed him nothing that'll make him mad.

"See I'll just cut em in half and save these for later heehee," said Holmes, and chopped them up like an expert pill-popper. "And then you stick it in water and shit."

"Um," said Lestrade, looking skeptical; "What the hell does this have to do with anything?"

"Dude just watch I'ma feed it to the motherfucking dog."

So he did, and nothing happened. Holmes was, like, pee-issed.

"No it is totally poison," he cried, at last springing from his chair and pacing wildly up and down the room; "I mean hello pills are poisonous and crap it's all those toxins the drug companies are trying to make you take it's total BS! Oh wait I know," He then cut the other pill in half and fed it to Awesomestone, who… immediately began to breakdance.

"Yaaaaay," Holmes said; "See, one was a sugar pill and the other one was a magical breakdancing pill!"

We were not amused.

"Look I like totally know it's weird as hell," continued Holmes, "But you need to learn that when things are weird they really aren't weird. Like normal cases are harder to solve cause they're like normal and shit but when shit gets weird it's like hey I can solve this cause it's weird as hell you know what I'm sayin'?"

Even Mr. Gregson wasn't buying this shit. "YOU DUMBASS," he said, "YOU NEVER MAKE ANY MOTHERFUCKING SENSE JUST TELL US WHO THE FUCKING MURDERER IS IF YOU'RE SO SMART YOU STUPID PIECE OF SHIT."

"Gregson is right," remarked Lestrade. "You're a giant douche, if you've solved the murder then fucking tell us who it is, Jesus Christ."

"Yeah you giant doucheasscrotch," I observed, "If we don't beat the shit out of the murderer soon he'll keep murdering people."

Holmes took a long whiff from his bong in response to that.

"Naaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah," he said at last, stopping abruptly and facing us. "Listen I'm gonna leave now."

Gregson and Lestrade looked pissed, but before they could say anything that little Arabic kid Wiggins came in the room.

"What's up Holmes," he said, giving Holmes a high-five, "I brought the cabby guy up to take your shit now pay me so my family doesn't starve."

"Yeah whatever," said Holmes, blandly. "Wanna see me do a magic trick?" he continued, grabbing a pencil from a drawer. "Look I'll write down how I do it haha." So he was writing it down when the cabby walked into the room.

"Hey Mr. Cabby guy I just remembered I can't write, can you help me write this down?" he asked.

The cabby shrugged his shoulders and went to grab the pencil when Holmes tried to smash it into his eye. He missed, of course, and hit the dude in the forehead but then he put handcuffs on him and shit.

"Yaaay," he cried, "I caught the murderer!"

So I immediately proceeded to beat the shit out of the cabby guy. Sure, he put up a good fight, tried to jump out the window, kicked Gregson in the balls, and slapped Lestrade until he cried, but he was no match for my badassery. Holmes was beating him over the head with his bong while I smacked him with my motherfucking cane-sword-thingie, and eventually shot him like fifty times because I am so badass. So we subdued him, thanks to me, John motherfucking Watson. Bitch yes.

"Sooooo," said Sherlock Holmes. "Like now that I arrested this guy, can I do drugs again?"


	8. What Sir Arthur Conan Doyle thinks of Mormons

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle hates Mormons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now that that's over with…


	9. This Chapter is so Motherfucking Long

OUR prisoner's furious motherfucking resistance eventually subsided after he realized that he had been thoroughly owned by me, for after I had pistol-whipped him into motherfucking next week he smiled like a douche, and expressed his hopes that he had not hurt any of us in the scuffle. Oh fuck you, you asshole! "So, when you get arrested, you go to jail, right?," he asked Sherlock Holmes. "Hah, we should totally go, jail sounds awesome!"

Gregson and Lestrade exchanged glances, as if they would rather bone each other in the closet than take this douchenozzle down to the station; but Holmes had realized that the sooner the case was solved, the sooner he could get back to his favorite crack-addled hobby, so he released the prisoner. Damn, that bitch had muscles, he was like all powerful and built. But I wasn't into him or anything, I was just noticing his physique, it wasn't turning me on or anything, don't get any ideas.

"Dude, you should be like, the chief of police, because you figured out who I was haha," he said, gazing with admiration at my roommate. "I mean, I know I was stupid enough to drive a cab here and come up to the room, but still, damn, I never expected to be caught."

"Haha see I'm like a total genius, let's get you arrested and shit," said Holmes, enjoying the fact that at least someone was marginally impressed with his methods.

"I can drive," said Lestrade, "I just passed the test after like fifty tries I'm awesome by now."

"Ok let's go, and John motherfucking Watson should come too in case he wants to put this shit in a book or something." Fat chance, asshole. Who would want to read about you?

But whatever I decided to go anyway. We went to the motherfucking police station and stuck him in one of those funky-ass interviewing rooms like you see in all the crime shows with the cool one-way mirrors, it was tiiiiight bitch.

"I'm gonna tell you all about my story," our prisoner said slowly. "And it's really long and boring as fuck but whatever at least you didn't have to read the long, Mormon-hating version right.?"

"Thank God," said the inspector, "But why don't you say this shit in a motherfucking courtroom where there are people who actually give a shit?"

"Bitch I'm not even gonna go to court," he answered. "You're a motherfucking army doctor, right?" He turned his fierce, sexy dark eyes upon me as he asked this last question.

"Bitch hello what have I been saying this entire goddamn time goddamnit of course I am a motherfucking doctor I am a motherfucking badass doctor don't even ask that question it is the dumbest question ever asked by a homosapien on this planet Earth," I answered.

"Then touch my chest with you hand," he said, with a smile, motioning with his manacled wrists towards his chest.

I did so, trying to hold my obvious arousal. Luckily, my boner was extinguished by an oh-so familiar ticking sound coming from his torso.

"Why," I cried, "You're a suicide bomber!"

"Damn straight," he said, placidly. "I got this bomb implanted in my chest and I could set it off any minute. Y'all better sit down and listen to my motherfucking story or I will blow this police station to high heaven!"

The inspector and the two detectives had a hurried discussion as to the advisability of allowing him to tell his boring-ass story versus killing everyone in the building.

"What do you think, John motherfucking Watson, are the lives of hundreds worth listening to this ass talk for an hour?" the former asked.

"Don't fucking ask me, you're the fucking police officers, do your stupid-ass job you bitches," I answered, "Policemen are supposed to save lives duh. I just take 'em away."

"In that case it is clearly our duty, in the interests of justice, to take his statement," said the inspector with a puffed-out chest. "You are at liberty, sir, to give your account, which I again warn you will be taken down by John motherfucking Watson."

"Oh, FUCK YOU."

"Sure thing biatch," the prisoner said, "And none of what I say is a lie or anything, I'm saying this so that people don't question it later, 'cause my word is all good and shit. Can you vouch for their accuracy John motherfucking Watson?"

"Whatever," I said lazily, looking out the window, trying to get a boner by thinking about Christina Hendricks, but it wasn't working this time.

"Listen, I'm not gonna tell y'all the whole stupid story of why I murdered those fucks," he said; "Actually I totally am haha, sike. Anyway, they murdered some dude and some chick, and I was like, that aint cool! I mean, murdering people is totally not cool. Even though I did it haha! So like, I knew they were guilty but nobody else did. And if you guys had any balls you would murder them too.

"So like I saw saying, I was banging that chick they murdered. Actually they didn't murder her, she committed suicide, but only 'cause she was forced to marry that Drebber bitch, and he was so dang ugly she couldn't look at him anymore."

"Understandable," said Holmes.

"So I like followed them around the world trying to murder them and shit. It was hardcore. Fuck I don't care if I died I just wanted to murder them and I did so it's like, awesome, you know?"

"Mmhmm." sighed Lestrade, who was clearly over this case.

"So when I got to London I was all like, damn, I aint got no motherfucking money! So then I decided to live in a dumpster outside the Criterion bar, but it was already taken by some asshole, so then I was like, fuck, I gotta get a job. So I became a cabby lol.

"So then I found out where those who douchebuggers lived. And I was like, yay, I can kill them. There's no way they'll ever recognize me 'cause I have a motherfucking BEARD NOW."

"Genius!" cried Holmes.

"I know right? So I was like following them around and shit. And Drebber was like totally drinking all the damn time, but Strangerson wasn't, and I was like, how I gonna get them both drunk you know? I was like, 'Jefferson Hope, you don't stand a GHOST of a chance of killing this guys!' Hahahahahaha!

"So then one day they were leaving and shit. And Drebber was like 'Screw this I'm gonna go get drunk lol.' So then I was like, dayum, now I can kill that biatch.

"So then I was like, hey, I could be like motherfucking BATMAN and make his death all symbolic and shit! That would be totally interesting! So I was like, hey I'm a cabby, I'll just drive him somewhere and murder him. He was all drunk and crap and drunk people don't know shit. Hey one of you get me a beer or I'll blow this shit to kingdom come."

I handed him the glass, and he drank it down.

"Hey thanks man," he said. "So I'd driven Drebber to this house and he went in and apparently tried to rape some chick and he got his ass kicked by some other French guy and then he got in my cab again."

"JESUS CHRIST I HATE THIS STORY LET'S PLAY SCRABBLE," said Gregson.

"So anyway Drebber got even more drunk and I was like, I'll drive him to this abandoned house I magically knew about! So I did. I had these boxes with magic breakdancing pills that I learned about in magic school, so I decided to use them on Drebber to make him die.

"So when I got to the house I could see my dead girlfriend smiling at me, like, yeah, make him breakdance to death, that's adorable as hell haha, I really want you to murder that dude. So I knew that this was a good idea because my imagination told me so, right?"

"I feel ya man," said Holmes.

"So I got to the house and was like, 'Yo Drebber, get in there biatch.'

"'Kk thanks lol,' said he.

"So I hauled him into the house and I saw the ghosts of my girlfriend and her dad smiling at me, like, yeah, this is gonna be so hilarious, we love violent deaths we're sick bastards.

"'It's like, sooooo dark,' said he, staggering inside.

"'Is it as dark… AS YOUR SOUL?' I asked dramatically, grabbing my beard and ripping it off. 'Recognize me, you bitch?'

"So then he looked at me and was like, OSHIT, then tried to run but I was like, nah, and it felt so good 'cause murder feels so good, yeah…

"So then my nose started bleeding!"

"GROOOOOOOOOOOSSSSSSSSSSSSS," said Gregson.

"WHAT NOW BITCH, WHAT NOW?' I cried, locking the door, and shaking the key in his face. 'I'M GONNA FUCK YOU UP MOTHERFUCKER.'

"'I don't know, what you gonna murder me?' he stammered.

"'Damn to the straight,' I answered. 'You stole my girlfriend and killer her daddy biatch, now you gonna die in the most horrible way known to man!'

"'Okay, but I didn't even kill her father, hello,' he said.

"'BUT YOU ARE SO UGLY SHE KILLED HERSELF,' I shrieked, thrusting the box before him. 'Take one of these breakdancing pills, and we will have a dance-off. The victor will live, the loser will die horribly.'

"So then he took the pill and we both started breakdancing. He got in a weird position and got stuck. I was like, hah, I win, you suck!

"So then I wrote the word RACHE in blood, 'cause like, there would be a RASH of murders in the area thanks to me."

"It's spelled 'rash,'" said I.

"Meh whatever I went to magic school not linguistics school. So anyway I left but then was like, ZOMG I LOST THE RING, so I went back and saw a police officer then pretended to be drunk lol."

"I KNEW IT!" I said.

"So anyway I went and tried to kill Strangerson but he attacked me instead of taking the breakdancing pills but whatever they would have killed him anyway so I stabbed him to death lol."

"So then, I was chilling out, when some kid came saying a cab was needed at this house, and I was like, hey what a coincidence, that's the same house that tried to catch me when I got the ring back! That's so funny! So I came here and you arrested the shit outta me."

So boring had the man's narrative been and his manner was so nauseating that we had sat silent and asleep. So then we just sat there napping while Jefferson Hope waited for us to wake up.

"You gonna blow us up?" I asked eventually, yawning.

"Hah no not yet I wanna see what prison is like I heard it's badass."

"Okay, okay," the inspector said, "Let's get your ass in jail and shit, don't blow crap up." He rang the bell as he spoke, and Jefferson Hope was led off by a couple of warders, while my friend and I made our way out of the station and took a cab back to motherfucking Baker Street. This time, I was gonna do some crack of my own.


	10. The End of the Motherfucking Story

WE HAD all been asked to appear in court to give our motherfucking testimony, but when we got there they told us it wasn't even motherfucking necessary. A higher Judge had decided to summon Jefferson Hope so he could beat the shit out of him, but it was too late. On the very night after his capture he activated the bomb, blowing the jail sky-high and killing fourteen motherfucking people. All they could find was his decapitated head somewhere down the block, and he had this creepy-ass smile on his face. Gross!

"Gregson and Lestrade are going to be soooooooo pissed hahahaha," Holmes remarked, as we chatted it over next evening. "They wanted all the credit but they aint gonna get it I am! Biatch!"

"Why would you get any credit, you didn't do shit," I answered.

"What you do in this world is a matter of no consequence," returned my companion, drunkenly. "The question is, can you convince the world that staring at shit as motherfucking hard as you can is an act of genius?" he laughed. "Whatever, this case was so motherfucking easy I didn't even have to solve it I just knew all the answers."

"No you fucking didn't!" I ejaculated.

"Sure I like totally did," said Sherlock Holmes, smiling at my pissed-offedness. "I solved this mystery in like a couple of days and didn't even need all that much fricken evidence dude that's like the quintessence of knowing all the answers."

"I don't think that word means what you think it means," said I.

"You just gotta, like, analyze shit, John Motherfucking Watson. Everyone wants to not analyze shit, but I do, because I'm analytical and crap."

"I confess," said I, "that you are a fucking douchetastic bitchderriere. Your sentences don't even mean anything."

"Whatever dude, you just don't understand because you're a fucking idiot. Like, if most people see stuff happen, they can, like, predict what else happens after that shit. Like I can predict that you won't understand a single fucking thing I say because you're stupid as hell and I am awesome. But like I don't have to do that crap you can just tell me something and I will know everything about that thing because I am analytical."

"One of your predictions was correct," said I, "Why don't you explain your motherfucking reasoning in this case so I can write it down and get you committed."

"Okay, so like, I went to the house, and stared at it a whole fucking lot. I also stared at the road and was like, hey, there was a carriage here but it was probably a cab because carriages are stupid cause their wheels are all fatass and shit.

"How did you know the cab belonged to the killer, though?" said I.

"Shut your fucking mouth I just knew. So anyway then I stared at the ground for a while. Did you know that I'm like an expert ground-starer hell yes I've taken CLASSES I know what stuff is on the ground. So then I was like, hey there were a bunch of fucking guys walking around here but one was probably the murderer and one was probably the victim, you know?"

"How did you know?"

"Because I'm fucking smart stop interrupting you asshole. So then I entered the house, and voilà, the victim was there. See I knew that one of them was the victim and there he was dead, I'm smart. So then there's gotta be a murderer, right? And then I saw the body and saw that he had like no wounds, but his face had this fugly expression, so I knew he had known he was gonna die from something like poison because people who have heart attacks never know that it's a heart attack they just fall to the ground and die instantly THAT'S HOW IT WORKS."

"Um, no," said I, "Often victims of heart attacks and similar ailments know that-"

"WHAT DID I FUCKING TELL YOU BITCH CRAM IT. So then I sniffed his lips, and his breath was like, really bad, so he must have ingested some kind of pill."

"What if he just didn't brush his teeth?"

"It was a breakdancing pill! He had been forced to breakdance and got stuck. As you could see, no other hypothesis would meet the facts."

I walked to the side of the room and immediately began banging my head against the wall for a good five minutes. After that I sat down quietly again.

"So anyway I'm a total genius so far, right?" said Holmes. "So, since nothing was stolen, the murderer clearly wasn't a burglar."

"HOW DID YOU FUCKING KNOW THAT NOTHING WAS FUCKING STOLEN THAT'S WHAT I'M ASKING-"

"Now, aside from robber, there are only two reasons someone would kill someone else. Over politics, or over a woman. Since we found a ring it was clearly over a woman."

"What if it was, like, his mother's ring or something, and they had fought over something completely different?"

"So I examined the room and was like, hey, blood didn't come from the victim, so the murderer had to have had a nosebleed!"

"Or it was a dog. Or a cat."

"And people who have nosebleeds always have red faces."

"Jesus Christ."

"So then I sent a code comprised of 0s and 1s to America, asking them if some guy wanted to kill some other guy over a woman. And they were like, dude, there's one guy in Europe named Jefferson Hope who wants to kill another guy who is also in Europe! So I was like, sweet, thanks for doing all the work for me suckers!

"So then I was like, it would be hilarious if the murderer was also the cabby. Because like, the horse wandered away and shit, so clearly nobody was in the cab controlling it."

"The cabby could have been asleep," I said, becoming increasingly bored with his bullshit explanations.

"Where, then, could the driver be, unless he were inside the house?"

"… Somewhere not in the house?"

"That's totally absurd! Besides, you don't murder someone with someone else around to see it."

"Unless they're an accomplice… because there's some other motive than love…"

"So then I decided that Jefferson Hope was one of the cabbies here haha. It's totes obvious. So then I was like, he was a cabby before, so LOGICALLY he was a cabby now, too! And there's no way he'd use a different name that would be dumb. So then I sent the little Arab children to find a cabby named Jefferson Hope. And they did, see, I was right."

"You were lucky."

"So then I had them bring him here, because there's no way he'd suspect a thing being summoned to the exact same house that had previously tried to catch him with the ring, right?"

"You are a fucking hack!" I cried. "I swear to God, I'm putting this shit in a book in order to show people what an insane douchebag you are."

"Whatever, Doctor," he answered. "You're just jealous that I solved the case while stoned." He handed a paper over to me, "Read this shit to me."

"The public," it said, "doesn't give a shit about the murder of Mr. Drebber, because he's just an American piece of shit. The details of the case will probably never be known now, except that it was committed by a dirty Mormon who assaulted the victim with his Mormonism. Clearly our police officers are awesome for solving this case, now maybe they can move on to solving importanter cases, like ones involving British people. Lestrade and Gregson are awesome and deserve all the credit and shit. Also, there was this one guy, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, who is asked to return the massive amounts of coke he stole from the evidence room. We know you did it, Holmes. We're not stupid."

"Hah, see?" cried Sherlock Holmes with a laugh. "My name got in the paper, I'm motherfucking famous now."

"Never mind," I answered; "I have all the facts, bitch, and the public shall know what a motherfucking hack asshole you are soon enough. In the meantime I will quote the brilliance of some weeaboo on the internet–

"Holmes and Watson wa totemo kawaii desu!

Kono story wa full of kurappu desu ne! Domo arigatou ^_^_^_^_^_^_^ Kawaii!"


End file.
